


Going Down the Rabbit Hole

by Mycroffed



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, I promise, It's going to make sense, M/M, Mix between modern and canon, Mordred is a journalist, Partially closely follows season 5
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-07-11 05:14:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15965453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mycroffed/pseuds/Mycroffed
Summary: While writing an article on the historical King Arthur and his wizard Merlin, journalist Mordred might be going a little bit too deep.





	1. Now

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go! The start of a new adventure~
> 
> This doesn't mean I won't write any Versailles in between (I'm going to try posting one chapter of this each Wednesday.) but I needed to get this idea out there.
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy this all!

**To:** jones.mordred@outlook.com 

 **From:** jamesjsmith@nghistory.com 

 **Subject:** commission on King Arthur 

 

Dear Mr Jones, 

After reading your latest article on Charlemagne, we would like you to write one about King Arthur, specifically about his relation to Merlin, his wizard. 

You have a month to get it to us, were you to accept. 

 

King regards, 

James Smith 

National Geographic History 

UK branch 

 

Mordred Jones brushed his black, curly hair out of his face as he stared at the e-mail after it had arrived in his inbox. Granted, ever since his article on Charlemagne had been published in Historia, some minor magazine that had gotten more attention than he ever thought it would, his inbox had been exploding with people offering him jobs, requesting him to write articles on other subjects, but none of them had quite managed to grasp his attention. This e-mail was different. Not only was it from National Geographic, a well-known and well-read magazine that was published all over the world — and something he had been reading since his early days at university, when it had been first created — but also on a subject matter that genuinely interested him. The shock that had filled him as he had first seen the mail was slowly but surely fading as his wit was recovering. 

Of course, he was aware that he shared a name with one of the characters from the myths, which was exactly why he had always been intrigued by the idea that the king had actually existed — and with the king, the other knights and the wizard, Merlin. Without hesitating, he moved his cursor immediately to the ‘reply’ button. With a grin around his lips, he sent this James Smith a message that he accepted the commission, before collecting a notepad, a pen, his library card and his headphones, before making his way to the British Library. It was his best chance to find the most recent books on the subject, as well as the old manuscripts from back in the day. 

On the way there — he took the Tube, as usual — he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings, which meant that he not only ended up stepping on some poor lad’s toes — “My apologies.”, “Don’t worry about it.” — who then continued to stare at him for the rest of the short ride to King’s Cross. Mordred was convinced that the young man had been about to approach him when the train arrived at his destination. After throwing a quick wink to the black haired stranger, the journalist disappeared into the crowd. 

At the library, he flashed his card to the lovely lady at reception, who quickly allowed his access to one of the reading rooms. Looking up some books about King Arthur and his court — just general ones, as an introduction for himself — he asked them to be brought to the reading room that he was currently residing in. Usually, he would have to wait until the next day for them to arrive, but he had long ago made a deal with Gwen, who would make sure that his requests were processed a little faster than the others. In return, he would take her out for a cup of coffee, listen to the stories about her life. Her stories about the man she was dating — his name was Arthur, of all names — and his adventures tended to sober him up, help  Mordred stay grounded in the present. He had a tendency to let the past take him away, to let the people he was investigating step into the present and talk to him. Not the healthiest of habits, he had to admit, but he had long learned to work around it. Gwen was — beside his friends — one of his coping mechanisms. 

He’d still have to wait at least a few hours before his books would turn up, so rather than stay around and mope, he abandoned his spot and made his way to Gwen’s office. He popped his head around the corner with a cheeky grin and mischief in his eyes. 

“Gwen,  _darling._ ” He purred, before making his way into her office. 

She glanced up, soon mirroring the grin that had spread across his own face. “Mordred! Got another assignment?” 

Being one of his few friends, Gwen not only knew of his profession, but also cared enough to read everything he wrote and managed to get published. He bounded over to the chair in front of her desk and plopped himself down into it. “You’ll never guess who it’s from or what it’s going to be about!” 

“Well, then you better tell me, Mordred, if I’ll never guess.” She put down her pen and leaned forwards. Her head was tilted ever so slightly in curiosity. 

“National Geographic His—” 

Before he could finish his sentence, he was interrupted by an enthusiastic squeal from his friend. “That’s such a huge deal! I’m so very proud of you!” 

“You don’t know the half of it.” His grin grew wider and wider as he continued to speak. “The commission is on King Arthur and Merlin!” 

“What a coincidence.” Though Gwen’s smile didn’t disappear, it seemed to change a little bit. However, Mordred couldn’t quite put his finger on how exactly it was different from the smile from before. “We had a donation this morning from an anonymous donor. It’s a diary of some kind of manservant.” She seemed to deliberately keep the original writer vague, which wasn’t something he understood. Why did she torment him like that? “Our historians haven’t looked at it yet, but that is mostly because I haven’t had the chance to register it just yet.” 

“Why would it be relevant to my investigation?” Mordred asked, though he wasn’t going to say no to the chance of holding — and being the first to investigate — a book that old. “Please tell me it’s a manservant from one of the nights, or even one of the nobles who visited Arthur’s court.” 

“Even better. It’s rumoured to be the diary of King Arthur’s manservant.” 

For a moment, Mordred remained seated, not quite sure what he’s done to get this lucky. “Gwen, I promise thar I will never  _ever_  joke about the fact that you’re falling for an Arthur ever again if you let me use that diary for my article!” 

“I was already planning on letting you take it home — I know you’ll treat it with respect — but I will take you up on that promise and remind you of it next time you decide to tease me after all.” She chuckled softly. 

“Of course I’ll treat it with respect!” Mordred grinned, eagerness taking over. He had to practically pin himself to the chair to stop himself from bouncing up and down. He really had too much energy, especially with something like that in his prospects. 

“Lucky for you, I know you well.” She paused for a moment before continuing. “I got my hands on it a few hours ago. The man who brought it in was young — almost as young as you are — and had found it in his attic. He refused to share his name, though, which was odd.” Gwen pouted her lips for a moment before reaching into one of her drawers and getting out a remarkably small book. “Here you go, that should get you started until I can get the other books to you. Just—” 

“Yes?” His hand hovered over the book, his gaze switching between the book and his friend. 

“Promise me you’ll bring it back?” She was scared that she’d lose her job, Mordred knew. 

“You are a darling, Gwen, of course I’ll return it.” He finally allowed himself to get up, placed his hands on her cheeks before pecking her forehead. “Leave those other books be. I will have my work cut out with this, I’ll look the rest up on the internet.” 

“You owe me for this, Mordred.” She reminded him, once again smiling. 

“As many cups of coffee as you want, a date to a boring event in case Arthur can make it, a mention on my acknowledgment, whatever you want.” He wouldn’t forget what he owed her, of course not, because this could be so brilliant and so special. “You name it, you got it.” 

She finally pushed the book a little closer to Mordred, who took it with the utmost respect, before putting it in his backpack. “I’ll let you know, my friend.” She said. “Now go. Get started.” 

Pecking her cheek once more, he bounded outside, making his way back home to King’s Cross and after that, his small apartment. On the Tube, he was once again quite distracted, though this time for a completely different reason. (He couldn’t help but wonder what could possibly be in that book, what secrets it could reveal about the King.) Once again, he stepped on someone’s toes. Ready to apologise again, he made eye-contact, realising that it was the same man from before. 

That certainly must have been a coincidence, right? 

“Sorry, I appear to be quite clumsy today.” He apologised quietly, sending the other a look that told the stranger that he truly was sorry. 

“Don’t worry about it.” The young man once again waved it away, smiling, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Was it mistrust that Mordred could spot there? All of a sudden, he wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve a look like that. 

“What a coincidence, though, that I manage to trample on your foot twice in one day.” Trying to make some conversation, Mordred turned towards the stranger. He knew that he didn’t have a lot of time — it was only a short ride, after all — but he remembered that gaze from before and he simply wondered what had happened in such a brief time span for it to change that much. 

“Must be, yes.” It seemed like the black-haired lad had done a one eighty since the last time they had met, not even an hour earlier. His voice was cold, distant, distracted. He looked away from him the moment that Mordred had stopped talking, his attention turned back to his phone. 

“I’m Mordred, by the way. Mordred Jones.” He held a hand out towards the stranger, hoping to get a name in return. 

However, his held-out hand was ignored as the train came to a halt. “Better hurry, Mr Jones. This is your stop.” 

Realising that the stranger was right, Mordred abandoned his attempt to make a friend and rushed out, the doors snapping shut right behind him. He twirled around, just in time to watch the lad wiggle his fingers at him in a goodbye. 

His thoughts remained with the young man until he opened the door to his apartment and the reason why he had returned so fast sprung back into his mind. 

 The diary. 

 He pulled it out, placed it delicately on his desk and sat down. He inspected the outside first, but he quickly realised that the cover must have been replaced throughout time, because the cover couldn’t be much older than one fabricated in the late nineteenth century. He hoped that the inside would be older, because otherwise it would be quite useless to him. Upon opening it, he immediately realised that it truly might be from the sixth century — or was it the seventh that Arthur had lived? What was it that historians agreed on again? He would know soon enough, after doing some more research. He opened the book, revealing a first empty page, not a title in sight. Peculiar. Upon turning the next page, a gasp escaped him. 

 Staring at him from the page was the spitting image of the young man he had met on the Tube. The one who had refused to give him his name. Underneath the drawing was a name scribbled: 

 _Merlin Emrys._  

This young man was the great Merlin? A laugh escaped him, though it didn’t last very long. People had had it wrong for so long, and now he had the proof to set it all right! Merlin was no old man, he was Arthur’s age, they must have been friends, especially if he was his manservant—  

No longer able to contain his curiosity, he turned the page and started reading. 


	2. Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little bit of an experiment. Either way, I hope that you enjoy it, because this story is going to be alternating chapters between Mordred in the present day and Merlin in the past~

Sometimes I wish that there was something like a normal day in Camelot. A day when we aren’t attacked, when we aren’t going out on missions, when we can just have a nice day in, maybe even enjoy a picnic… But no, of course that’s never going to happen, not as long as Morgana is still out there.

Morgana…

I’ve lamented many times on this subject, but the fact that she is the way she is, is very much my fault. I shouldn’t have—

It doesn’t matter. Not right now. I’m here to tell a tale and while Morgana plays a huge part in it, there’s no use in beating myself up about something I can no longer change. (To see the full story on Morgana, just read one of my earlier diaries. If you’re not me and you’ve got your hands on this one, I’m sure you can get the other ones as well.)

I don’t even know why I’m writing all of this down. I plan to destroy this book when I’m about to die, because nobody should have this much information on my life, not even for the sake of history. This in the hands of the wrong person… I can’t imagine the damage it’d do.

Now, the tale I’m going to tell you is the one about Mordred, about Arthur’s bane. It’s going to be riddled with mistakes on my part, the world not cooperating at all, so if you don’t like that sort of thing, you better look away now. (Why do I even put these in? The only person who’ll get to see this is me. I’m probably just being paranoid.)

I should probably start at the beginning, which is… The meeting about Ismere. Gwaine and Percival had been sent god-knows-where on a patrol and had disappeared at those borders. No matter how much I tried to get Arthur to see sense, the king was determined to go over there and get them back, especially when Elyan’s reconnaissance mission hadn’t brought back any new information.

You’d think that after many years, Arthur would learn to listen to me, would know that I only have the best in mind for him, but _no_ , of course not. The stubborn prat can’t even consider that. So off we went, to Ismere, through Annis’ lands, which was Gwen’s idea. She’s absolutely brilliant sometimes.

The ride was boring. The only interesting thing that we ran into was an abandoned village, where one of the local wizards summoned me. Turned out he was a Vates, a druid seer, who decided to bless me with the absolute brilliant news of Arthur’s looming death at the hands of a dark-haired young man. If I had known what he would tell me, I would never have talked to him in the first place. Either way, we continued on this road, now blessed with the awful image of Arthur dying.

That was absolutely not what I needed.

Yet it was what the universe had given me and what I would have to deal with for the rest of the trip. At least that was what I thought. Those thoughts, however, were pushed to the back of my mind as we arrived at Annis’ court, where we were allowed to stay for the night, get new provisions and the lot. And I absolutely did not have to juggle. Anyone who tells you otherwise is either lying or attempting to make me look bad.

I would love to say that the rest of the trip went absolutely brilliantly, that nothing happened at all, that we got to the dark tower where the other knights were held. I did tell you that, didn’t I? Well, we had figured it out. Apparently Morgana was looking for something and digging absolutely everywhere, which was why we were even going to the damned place in the first place. We had hope. And it was impossible to change Arthur’s mind once he had hope.

Either way, as you probably could have guessed, something happened. We were attacked by Saxons, I saved Arthur’s life, but we ended up being caught anyway in an accident that was absolutely unrelated to food and rabbits. But you’ll never guess who was there to get us out of a sticky situation.

Mordred.

I should have been delighted to see him again after all those years, seeing that he survived after that little stint in Camelot, but… Of course not. I recognised him before I knew his name, because it didn’t matter _at all._

He was the man from the vision.

I had an opportunity to get Arthur to kill him, but of course the noble bastard allowed him to live, because he – and I quote – ‘hadn’t done anything wrong yet’. At least Mordred wouldn’t be joining us anytime soon. He was with the Saxons and would probably stay there. Hopefully he would stay there. I really didn’t need anything else to worry about.

We got into the castle without causing too much of a ruckus, surprisingly enough – we’ve come to the point where I’m surprised when nothing goes wrong, which is almost sad, isn’t it? Once in, we joined with Percival and Gwaine and organised a revolt. Sort of. Either way, we got out, faced Morgana and Mordred, but the druid surprised me and stabbed Morgana.

I was beaten up – I have quite forgotten how that had happened, but it was nothing new – and left behind by Mordred, who was busy dragging Arthur out of there, the other knights trailing after him. I was incredibly lucky that the Diamair found me, healed me and revealed that they were the key to all knowledge. I was offered it all, but it seemed… unwise. However, one question seemed crucial, though, and I couldn’t help but ask it.

What’s Arthur’s bane?

Apparently I had had it all wrong and Arthur himself is his own doom. Wonderful, of course, but that didn’t change that Mordred was going to kill Arthur. However, that seemed far off everyone’s mind as we returned to Camelot, because there was a knighting about to happen! As a thanks for saving his life, Arthur made Mordred a knight. What a lucky thing that the king didn’t appear to remember that the young man was the druid boy that we had saved all those years ago.

Mordred could have gotten both of us in a lot of trouble.

Once again, I counted myself blessed that Arthur seemed to be so ignorant when it came to the people closest around him. Once he cared about someone, he was blind to all their faults, to their failings. It was quite charming, of course, and absolutely useful for people like Mordred and I.

Now, just because he was a knight, just because he had saved Arthur’s life once, that didn’t mean that I was going to let him off lightly. He was still part of a prophecy and if there was one thing I couldn’t risk, it was Arthur’s life.

The man means so much to me and he barely even knows.

I can’t trust Mordred, no matter how nice he is. I cannot allow him to get close to him. Without Arthur, magic will never be able to return to Camelot. And of course, I’d be losing a dear friend. I decided to talk to Mordred, maybe tell him about the prophecy, because history has proven that that is absolutely a great idea to know the future.

I really wish that I didn’t know the future.

But as usual, that choice was taken away from me.

No need to be annoyed about it, because there is simply no use to complain about the past, right? It is not as if I can change it.

I have the feeling that I’ve been talking about the same thing for so long, time to change the subject. Gwen took me to the side when we got back, quickly telling me about the things that had happened in Camelot. Apparently Sefa, one of the other servant girls who had managed to get my attention right before I left, had a sorcerer father who had betrayed us all to Morgana. She had been sentenced to death before we returned.

Sometimes I wonder if other sorcerers have just decided to throw common sense all out of the window. I get that they want magic to be allowed again, that they want to be able to do whatever they want, but can’t they see that I’m working on it? That I am just as eager to tell Arthur that I’ve got magic as they are?

Sometimes, on one of those rare occasions that I have some free times and both Gaius and Arthur give me some time to myself, I imagine what it would be like, how he would react to me telling him, but it only upset me, so in the end, I stopped doing that. There was no use making myself feel horrible over something as stupid as that, right?

Since then, I’ve started to wonder what it would have been like if Arthur and I had been born in a different time. Earlier, in Roman times, it would have been accepted if the two of us had a relationship, even _encouraged_. Maybe later, in a few centuries, would it be acceptable again. However, right now, because of the position that Arthur held, because of the fact that I have magic, we just can’t even _think_ about it. Or at least that’s what I tell myself to feel better.

I’m not in love with him.

I’m _not_. Really, I am just waiting for the right person to stroll past. I’ll find him, at some point. I know that I will. Or _her_. I’m not that bothered.

I will figure it out eventually.

And until then, I’m going to keep protecting Arthur as best as I can.

Alright, time to change the subject abruptly and completely: I’ve seen Aithusa again. She’s completely different from the Great Dragon, from Kilgharrah. Since she had grown up in a place with limited space, apparently, thanks to being locked up with Morgana of all people, she hadn’t fully developed. She cannot even _speak_!

I wish that I could do anything for her, to help her. As a dragonlord, I could feel her pain, I could… I don’t know, I just wish that there was something that could change her fate. It wasn’t her fault that Morgana got to her first and was charmed by her. Anyone would be charmed by such a wonderful white dragon.

Once I get my hands on Morgana, I’m going to ask her why. I know she was locked up and all that and that Aithusa’s state was not _her_ fault, but I am still curious. So incredibly curious.

Then again, there are many questions that I would love to ask Morgana, if we were to get back on speaking terms one day. I hope that day’ll come, but I fear… I fear it’s too late for her. And no matter how hard I want to try and change her again, I know that over the last few years, she has only solidified in her hatred, her darkness had intensified. Changing her once again to the lady that I had gotten to know when I had first come to Camelot seems almost impossible.

I remember, back in the days, being charmed by her to the point of even bringing her flowers, after those initial nightmares. Those purple flowers still hold a pretty special place in my heart whenever I see them. I can still see them standing on the table right next to the window of her room. And Gwen would walk in, her brown eyes filled with warmth and fondness for her lady and—

Of course now Arthur needs me again.

I’ll leave the reminiscing for another da—

Yeah, I really have to go. I shall return later, with more news of adventure. I hope.


	3. Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this instead of studying. I may have to change the posting day to once every other Wednesday, rather than every Wednesday. It honestly depends on how much time uni's going to demand.
> 
> I'm going to try my hardest to finish a chapter every week, but my uploading schedule might be a little messy.
> 
> Either way, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy it!

Once he had finished that first entry, he put down the book. Mordred had absolutely no idea what he had expected to find in there, but it certainly wasn’t _this_. Gwen had been right, this truly was Merlin’s diary, but it would give them so much more information than he had originally suspected. The young man would have to get this back to her, he couldn’t allow himself to keep all of it to himself. So rather than continuing to read, he put it aside, determined to contact his friend at a later hour about the diary.

First, he would take a look at the internet, do a quick search to make sure that his new information wasn’t found, wasn’t put online before. One would never know. So he opened his laptop and immediately went to Chrome, where he typed ‘Arthur Pendragon’ into the search bar. The first result was a surprising one, it being a fencing club.

_Camelot Fencing_.

Was Mordred the only one who appreciated that irony? A man with the same name as King Arthur running a fencing club named after a kingdom long gone was more than he had expected to find. With a small smile around his lips, he clicked on the link, which brought him to a neatly designed website. His eyes scanned the few paragraphs on the _home_ page that were meant to attract visitors to the classes.

_‘Do you like fighting scenes with swords in movies? Do you want to learn how to fence? Then Camelot Fencing is the place for you! With weekly training for students of every level in our central London training studio, we’ll guide you from a starter to an experienced fencer. Go to the_ contact _page if you’re interested in joining us!’_

They were the usual style: it assumed that people were into certain things, oversold themselves, but that was what these kinds of websites were meant to do, he knew. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be able to attract new students. Initially, Mordred wasn’t sure if he wanted to join, he simply thought that it was an amazing coincidence, but the longer he thought about it, the more fun it sounded. He _had_ indeed always been fascinated by sword fights and he was in dire need of a hobby, something that would get him out of the house. After all, Gwen had been telling him that it was necessary that he made some more friends besides herself.

He quickly clicked on the _contact_ button, staring at the screen as it changed to a list of classes and teachers. At the top of the screen, it stated that new pupils could simply turn up at the beginning of the class and that they would be taken care of. So Mordred quickly checked the first class with Arthur – he was lucky, it was the one for beginners – and scribbled down the time and date that it would take place.

He was already getting more and more excited about this and he couldn’t wait for the class to roll around.

 

\--~--

A few days passed before Mordred made his way over to _Camelot_ – it was still weird for him to think of the fencing club like that, especially after the amount of times that he wrote it down or had read it – carrying a bag with some sports gear, just in case he would be allowed to join the class. Finding the room wasn’t too hard – about ten people had collected in front of the door, chattering happily as they waited – and he joined the group quietly, standing in the corner.

Nobody paid attention to him, at least not until the doors opened and a blonde man walked out, wearing a white jacket and white matching trousers. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Mordred realised that it was fencing gear, but he didn’t pay attention to it. He was too busy staring at the man’s face. He had a feeling that he knew this man, but that would be absolutely ridiculous. How could he possibly know this man?

He was still staring as the blonde man made eye contact with him. The man smiled, as if it wasn’t the first time that he had gotten this reaction from anyone, and made his way over to the journalist. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“I—” Mordred suddenly didn’t know how to form words, how to string them together to form sentences, all he could do was stare.

“It’s alright, happens to everyone.” Arthur chuckled, clearly amused. “Yes, you are indeed standing in front of _the_ Arthur Pendragon, Olympic fencer.”

_That is where I know him from_. Mordred realised, relaxing just enough for words to escape him. That was why the man felt so familiar, he must have seen him on the telly or something. “I found your website.”

“That’s how people usually end up here. Are you someone who wants an autograph or are you actually interested in taking part?” Arthur tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at the journalist.

“I had no idea that you were _you_ , Mr. Olympic Fencer.” Mordred said, a hint of a smirk around his lips. “So yes, I am here to take part.”

“Wonderful. Now, before we actually start this—what’s your name? After all, you already know mine.” The fencing teacher guided him towards the door that lead towards the gym room. “Fair’s fair.”

“Jones.” The journalist replied. “Mordred Jones. Pleasure to meet you, Arthur Pendragon.”

“Mordred?” The other raised an eyebrow at him, though there was an amused look in his eyes. “You won’t try to kill me with the skills that I’m going to teach you, are you?”

“No matter how tempting that sounds, I don’t think that that would be very wise.” He chuckled, shaking his head ever in fondness. For some reason, this banter was so incredibly easy, as if it was an old habit that he had simply fallen out of.

“Ah, scared of ending up in jail for your misdeeds?” Arthur made his way over to the front of the class, demanding everyone’s attention the second he turned from Mordred to the entire class.

“More of a potential Merlin hiding in the shadows.”  Mordred called out, before disappearing to the back of the class, staying completely quiet through the rest of the class. However, he didn’t miss the look of surprise on Arthur’s face as he spoke that name. Interesting. Did he hit a nerve? Or did Arthur actually _know_ a Merlin?

Either way, Mordred didn’t get a lot of time to think about whatever he had said, because Arthur was merciless. After warm-ups, which lasted about half of the class, the class was split up. Another man took over teaching the full class, a man with curly blonde hair called Leon – Mordred was so tempted to call him _sir_ Leon, for some reason, even if it was just to tease the other – and they all gathered their swords. When the journalist tried to follow them, however, Arthur called him aside.

“Are you going to make me do more jumping jacks? Or is this some wicked way to _punish_ me for my comment earlier?” Mordred’s skin was covered with a thin layer of sweat, but he wasn’t done just yet. He wasn’t so exhausted yet that he wasn’t able to do anything else.

“My instinct is telling me that you can do better than this. I know that this is your first class, but you move like someone who’s had years of experience.” Arthur said, throwing a sword at Mordred without much of a warning.

The journalist easily caught it, surprising both himself and Arthur.

“That sword you’re holding there is called an épée.” The teacher explained. “There are three different sword types, but usually people tend to go for this one, since the rules are the easiest to follow.”

“It feels pretty well balanced.” Mordred attempted to swirl it around his fingers, tried to be _cool_ , but the sword immediately fell to the ground with a clattering sound. His cheeks immediately turned red as he knelt down to pick it up again.

“ _That_ is something not even experienced fenders do.” Arthur seemed to be grinning – he rolled his eyes at him as well. “The only swords that you can easily do that with are those medieval swords you see in movies, and even then it takes a lot of practice.”

“For some reason, I felt like I could do it.” Mordred protested, though it was a weak defence. “You still haven’t explained to me why I’m getting a one-on-one class with you while the rest is—” He glanced over his shoulder to spot the other group jumping back and forth, all holding a different sword than him. “—doing whatever it is they’re doing.”

“As I said. I have a feeling.” Arthur spoke before he abruptly launched himself at Mordred.

The journalist managed an evasive manoeuvre, waving his sword around helplessly, but still managing to hit Arthur’s with such a force that it dropped out of his hand. He stared at what had happened for a moment, long enough for the other to grab Mordred’s sword—no, _épée_ – and point it at his throat.

“Not too bad, for the first time holding a sword.” Arthur said, quickly lowering the épée that he was holding. “Are you sure you’ve never done this before, Mordred?”

“I promise you that I’ve never held a sword in my life.” His breathing was quite heavy as he stood there, waiting for his heart to stop beating like it tried to escape his chest. Maybe he should pick up running again, that would probably help with this little ‘problem’.

“Well, turns out my instinct isn’t too far off, then.” Arthur’s grin turned surprisingly smug. “Now, Mordred, how about you join the more advanced class next week? You are clearly better at this than those who’ve been at it for months.”

“Can I consider the offer?” The journalist was eager enough to join Arthur and learn how to fence, but it was still a matter of finding the time to do so.

“Of course! Just let me know when you’ve decided. I’m here almost every day, along with a select few, but my phone number is on the website. You can always call me if you don’t have the time to get here.” The épée was put down and instead a hand was offered to Mordred. When he took it, Arthur smiled at him. “Welcome to Camelot, my friend. I hope that we’ll be able to convince you to stay.”

“You’re doing a great job so far.” He grinned at Arthur.

“Good. Then let me ruin it by making you pick up that sword again. Class isn’t over, you know.”

 

\--~--

 

After another half hour of jumping forwards and backwards and every other -wards that Mordred could possibly think of, said class was finally over. He collapsed onto the ground, groaning softly as his muscles refused to cooperate. He knew that he shouldn’t be surprised, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to complain about it, loudly and multiple times.

“Who’s the handsome bloke you yelled into jelly?” Mordred could see a new man walk in, who was staring at him and even wiggling his eyebrows as the two made eye contact.

“Gwaine, leave him alone. Percival is just on the other side of that door and you know he doesn’t appreciate it when you flirt with harmless people who have just completed their first fencing class.” Arthur still had that amused tone, which told Mordred that these two were friends and that this happened more often than he could probably imagine.

“It was worth a shot.” Gwaine shrugged. “Besides, Perce knows that I am loyal to him and him alone.”

“Mordred Jones.” The journalist interrupted the conversation between the two friends. “The name’s Mordred.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Mordred. Have you come to kill our king?” Gwaine grinned, making the exact same joke that Arthur had already made.

“I already made this joke!” Arthur protested, following the dark-haired man out of the room, to the storage room where the swords were kept.

The second the two of them left the room, that raven-haired man from the tube stormed into the room. “Arthur!” He called out for the man who had taught him. He glanced around the room, only to spot Mordred. Once again, the man froze and before he could possibly get a reaction from the blonde-haired teacher, he twirled around and stormed out again.

The two men who had disappeared now made their way back into the room, looking for the man who had just called out for one of them. “Merlin?”

Mordred, who by now had managed to get back on his feet, still groaning loudly and excessively, pointed at the door. The two others followed his finger and trailed after the raven-haired man. No, he knew his name now.

_Merlin_.

Gwaine popped his head back in, turning to Mordred. “Arthur says that you just have to pull the door shut behind you when you leave. He’s hoping to see you again soon.” And just like that, he was gone again.

All that remained for Mordred was to make his way home and collapse on his bed. He was sure that he’d sleep well tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Arthur, Leon and Gwaine! The other knights will be introduced soon and Merlin will stop running at some point~


	4. Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhm.
> 
> Yeah, that Inktober thing I did took up a lot more of my time than I thought it would. But now I'm here and I have muse and I'm going to finish this. It'll still take a while for me to finish this, but I am going to try and go back to weekly uploads, though I am going to move the day to Sunday. Probably.
> 
> Either way, thank you for being patient with me!

You know what I hate most? Those days where nothing seems to happen, where all you can do is _wait_ for what is going to happen next. After all, you just _know_ that something’s going to happen at some point. This is what I’m feeling like right now. Morgana’s still out there, ready to pulverise us the second she finds out that I am Emrys. It is a miracle that I have managed to hide this for as long as I have, since just about anyone who knows me has realised a long time ago that I am a terrible liar.

The only reason she doesn’t know is because she hasn’t asked me. I’m pretty sure that’s it.

I’m sure it’s only a point of waiting until I mess everything up and she finally sees the light. Sometimes, I can hear her voice in my head when I imagine what would happen. (To be fair, I’d rather it’s Morgana’s than Arthur’s, since the latter always brings along heartbreak and I am not sure if I’m ready for that.)

This imaginary conversation would go along these lines, probably:

‘This makes so much sense.’ This is Morgana, obviously, since she has been obsessed with finding Emrys lately and I can just imagine the pieces of the puzzle suddenly fitting quite snugly together in her head. ‘This is why you keep getting ready to throw yourself under a passing carriage if it would save Arthur’s life.’

I would probably remain quiet, though I have figured out a response to this for over a million times. I keep forgetting it. I remember certain words and phrases that I keep using over the different editions, but the exact words, the exact meaning that I want to convey with them keep changing, depending on the mood I’m in.

If I’m in a good one, I will probably say something along the lines that destiny isn’t the only reason that I keep trying to save Arthur, that there is a genuine fondness behind it all as well. (I tell myself it’s just a fondness, we all know that it’s more than that at this point. Especially Gwen. I’ve seen the looks that she’s been throwing me over the last few weeks, the ones that are mixed with both pity and a hint of jealousy, even though Arthur is – and always will be – completely hers.

When I’m in a bad mood, however, my answer would be something much less happy. It’d be something to do with an obligation, with duty, with _not having a choice_. It’s on these days that I would happily trade away being the most powerful warlock in existence.

Morgana wouldn’t find me very impressive either way, I don’t think. She’s seen me stumble and fall down once too often while I pretend to be the lovable idiot who can’t do things to save his own life. (I’m not even sure I am still pretending at this point.)

Either way, I spend my days running after Arthur, doing chores for Gaius, trying not to lose my head or get burnt while using magic to save the king and savouring every single moment of free time, like this one, to write some things down about my life. I have a feeling that I’m going to be grateful for diaries like these, for the memories that I’m writing down right now. Can you believe that I’ve been able to write for as long as I have without any interruptions? No Arthur bellowing my name, no Gaius coming up with impossible tasks last minute, no Morgana threatening to destroy Camelot or claim its crown…

Just peace.

 

\--~--

 

I had to go ruin is, hadn’t I?

The second I wrote the word, alarms started going off just about everywhere. It turns out that when Arthur and I went to talk to Uther’s spirit – oh yeah, we did that, forgot to mention – the prat glanced back when leaving, so now the angry king’s here to ruin our lives. He particularly seems to have it in for Gwen, claiming that she’s not worthy to be Camelot’s next queen. (I know for a fact that she’s one of the best that we could ever hope for and while I do not want Arthur to die, I wish that she could get a chance to prove herself to everyone.)

I’m pretty sure that this is going to end badly.

Mark my words.

 

\--~--

 

I predicted it and it came true!

Uther’s spirit found out that I have magic. Thank the stars that I managed to send him back before the former king could tell Arthur, because that would be a whole new mess that I’m not ready for yet. Could you imagine?

( _I keep having to tell myself to stop writing these imagines out, since they are not interesting and I don’t really care.)_

Either way, Uther’s banned again, Arthur’s pouty and whiny because his father told him that he wasn’t proud of what he had achieved, Gwen’s probably just glad that she’s alive and most of the knights are just glad that there are no more pots flying at their heads. (I am assuming this happened. Gwaine told me this when he was quite drunk yesterday evening and I should know better than to believe everything that comes out of his mouth when he’s drank too much.)

Speaking of Gwaine and the others knights, I’ve been thinking about having a conversation with Leon about Mordred. I am sure that he would listen to me about my gut feelings – at least if I manage to convince him of those without telling him that I have magic – about the boy. I still don’t quite trust him, but I am very aware that I am biased, which is why I need a neutral party. Leon would be the perfect one for this, were it not that I would have to reveal my magic to have him believe me properly.

It’s at moments like these that I wish Lancelot were still alive.

I haven’t thought about him in _years_.

Alright, this calls for a pint at the tavern.

 

\--~--

 

I thought that getting tipsy would make it better. That Lance would come to life again in my memories, maybe even speak to me a little, but all I can see are the bad moments, the times where one of us – or _both of us_ – were hurting.  Thinking about him is like torture, sometimes, but it’s worse when I try to push his memory away, since he then comes back at the worst times.

Last time I tried to ignore him, I dreamt about him on a quest, woke up in the middle of the night and had to go ‘pee’ to calm myself down. I was lucky that nobody noticed I was gone, because I’m not sure what state I would have been in. (Probably a sobbing mess, no matter how hard I try to hide the tears…)

Granted, it has become better over years, but that doesn’t mean that the ache goes away. It’ll always be there, I’m fairly sure, though it’s now paired with fondness and love. There are moments, like these, that remembering fills my entire core, makes it unable for me to think about anyone – or anything – else. Then there are other moments, when I can see the good things, the friendship, the hugs, the support. While those are much more common nowadays, that doesn’t stop the bad times from making an appearance every once in a while.

I just read what I wrote and I am most definitely drunk. I only get this philosophical when I’ve had a drink or two. More than that and I would have ended up absolutely and completely smashed. I’m a bit of a lightweight, which really isn’t that much of a surprise. You’d think my warlock genes would have made me immune to alcohol or something or to getting drink, but no. Of course not. I end up getting drunk very easily.

I got distracted again, didn’t I?

It always happens when I’ve had even the tiniest drop of alcohol. Maybe I should go to sleep, isn’t that an idea?

 

\--~--

 

I talked to Mordred. He’s been doing great in training and I’m fairly sure that Arthur is planning on taking him on his first real mission soon. I didn’t tell the druid boy, but I’m fairly sure that he already knows. He follows Arthur around like a lost puppy and whenever the king’s not around, he just sort of _sits there_ , as if he doesn’t have anything better to do with his life.

He claims that it’s all fine, that he is doing absolutely brilliant, but I can see the way his face lights up when he gets near Arthur. I think he’s got a crush on him, but I’m a hundred percent sure that Arthur won’t go in on that. If he hasn’t said anything to me after all those years, then a new puppy isn’t going to win his heart in just a few days. Mordred will learn soon enough and find a proper lover, be it male or female, to spend his time with.

After all, he is still extremely adorable. If I hadn’t known him when he was just a child – and if he wasn’t still basically a kid now – then I may have invited him in bed just once. But things are complicated, as usual, and I really don’t think it’s wise for me to get involved with him, even once. He’s meant to kill Arthur – though I just don’t see him doing that – and that is something that I have to avoid at all costs. So I’ll keep him close, though I won’t actually acknowledge him too much, and make sure that he keeps looking at the king with that look of adoration.

Maybe I’ll even play the cold mentor figure every once in a while. What could possibly go wrong?

( _I suddenly got a really bad feeling, I think I just challenged fate. Can I undo this, quickly?)_

I just hope that Arthur’ll make it through this year and that he’ll live to become the great king that I know that he can be. I have seen him during the darkest moments and still he shone brighter than any star in the sky. And okay, I may have had a hand in it without anyone knowing, that doesn’t mean that the light isn’t originating from him – at least that’s what it looks like to everyone else.

He inspires people and to me, that’s the most important thing a king could possibly wish to achieve. The only problem I still have is the fact that he disapproves of magic, but I can work around that. Even better, I can change his mind! And hopefully, one day, I can tell him who I really am without risking ending up somewhere dead in a ditch.

I really would like to grow old along with Arthur, Gwen and the knights and even Mordred. Maybe Morgana will even change her mind! Wouldn’t that be absolutely amazing, to just have a good ending to our story? To have everyone die of old age, happy and…

I just had one of those feelings.

I don’t think fate’s going to allow this.

You think I would have learned by now, right? Think again.


	5. Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was playing Breath of the Wild where I named a horse Arthur and another Merlin. While messing around, I discovered that I could add flowers to Arthur's mane, which is something I could totally imagine Merlin doing.
> 
> It made me want to finish the next chapter, which I'd been working on and off on. I hope you enjoy and let's hope that I'll be able to update once again before the year is over!

The week both seemed to pass incredibly quick as well as incredibly slow. The days itself felt like they lasted three times as long as they usually did and Mordred found himself staring at his computer screen, hoping that time would pass by more quickly if he did. He simply couldn’t focus on his research – besides an odd chapter of Merlin’s diary every once in a while – because he was too busy trying to figure out whether these people were real, descendants of King Arthur and the knights or if it was just a coincidence. (The latter was the least likely, to him, since coincidences simply didn’t happen.)

Once Mordred managed to get through the week, however, and looked back at it, it seemed like it had flown by in a frenzy and he had wasted all his time. Once it was Tuesday evening, he gathered his sporting gear – a black pair of joggings and a black shirt with a drawing on it that had almost faded to a point where nobody could actually read what was on it – and put it on.

 He glanced at his phone – he had considered texting Gwen to check up on her, but then decided against it, since he would only end up rambling about fencing – before grabbing his keys, his jacket and making his way out the door.

For once, the Underground ran fairly smoothly and he got to the fencing school with plenty of time to spare. This was fairly rare, so he got the book out of his bad that he usually read while waiting for the train to arrive and started reading. (As one usually does with books.) It was because of this that he didn’t notice that Arthur had walked in and was now staring at the younger, dark haired man with a book in his lap.

“Whatcha readin’?” He asked, before snatching the book out of Mordred’s hands. “Le morte d’Arthur, huh? I would never have taken you for a  history person, Mordred. Didn’t you say you were a journalist?”

“I happen to combine both, thank you very much.” He tried to get his book back from the other. It may not be an original – not even Gwen would have allowed him to take that outside of the library without extensive checks – but it was still the French text and that was what matters. “I write history articles. My next job is about King Arthur, coincidentally.”

It was only now that the young journalist looked up at the other and spotted the flowers that were tangled in his hair. A smirk spread across his face as he attempted to keep his smile under control. For a flash second, he wondered whether his teacher was even aware that they were there.

“King Arthur?” The man in front of Mordred tensed up. “Are you here because of my last name, thinking that you can get some kind of scoop out of me? _The last living descendant of the one and only King Arthur_?” A look of absolute disgust spread across his face, which was in great contrast to the pink and blue in his hair. “If that’s the case, you can leave _now_ , Mordred Jones, because you won’t get any information from me.”

“I’m going to be honest here, Arthur, I found your fencing club while researching you— _king Arthur_ , but I stayed because I genuinely want to take up fencing. Your club is the closest to my house and I simply need a reason to leave it from time to time.” Mordred didn’t like conflict, didn’t like that he may almost be chucked out of a place only because of his job. “I only brought this book because I usually read it on the Tube.”

As Mordred spoke, Arthur seemed to relax again. “My apologies. I have had to deal with many journalists who assumed things. It’s better to be safe than sorry, you must understand.”

The young journalist nodded, sending the other a small, honest smile. “I understand your worries, Arthur, but I promise. Not a word shall be posted about your club, unless you want me to.” He then couldn’t hold himself back anymore and gestured at the man’s hair. “Did you know that you’ve got flowers there?”

Instantly, another voice yelled out in exasperation. “Oh, come _on_! He has a meeting with his father yet, couldn’t you have kept it quiet for a few more hours?” Gwaine’s eyes were sparkling with mischief and it seemed like the most natural thing. “I’m sure that he’s going to take them out now.”

Arthur sighed dramatically – a little more so than necessary – and rolled his eyes at the trickster. “When did you have the time to put flowers in my hair, Gwaine?”

“I didn’t!” The brown haired man held up his hands defensively, because he knew better than to admit out loud that he was the one behind the prank. “For once, I actually wasn’t the one! I thought of it, sure, but Merlin was the one who executed it.”

After that revelation, it was Arthur’s turn to look exasperated. “ _Mer_ lin!” And just like that, he stormed out to look for the raven-haired man, leaving Mordred alone with Gwaine.

Once he was truly gone, the latter leaned a little closer to the journalist and whispered: “I _was_ the one who put them in, but Merlin owes me from last week, so I decided that this would be some pay-back.” He then winked, before sitting down next to him. “Now enjoy the show, Mordred.”

And sure enough, a few minutes later Arthur and Merlin stormed back into the room, this time yelling at each other.

“ _Really, Mer_ lin. Flowers? You couldn’t think of anything better to put in my hair?” Without turning away from his friend, he gestured at Mordred, summoning him to the centre of the room. “Get your ass over here, the lesson is about to start.”

As Mordred put the book back into his bag and scrambled to his feet, Merlin had something to say of his own. “You know as well as I do that it’s Gwaine who’s behind this entire plan. Besides, when would I have the time to pick flowers and to _put them in your hair_? You have me running errands every second of the day!”

“ _You_ were the one who applied for the job, Emrys.” Mordred thought that he could see Merlin flinch at being called that, but he wasn’t entirely sure. Either way, Arthur also seemed to be absolutely unaware. “You don’t get to complain about it.”

The raven-haired boy opened his mouth to say something in return,  but Arthur stopped him before he could even utter a single word. “I’m with a student now, Merlin. We’ll pick this back up once I’m done ruining Mordred’s day.”

It was only then that Merlin seemed to notice him again, but for the first time, he didn’t storm right  out. He took the journalist’s place on the bench and picked up the book from his bag. “Mind if I read this while he beats you into jelly?” He waved the book at its owner, an eyebrow raised.

“Uhm—sure. Go ahead. Just don’t move the bookmark.” Mordred shrugged, before Arthur once again demanded his attention.

“While that’s all settled, Jones, it’s time for you to start focussing.” Somehow, the owner of the club managed to flick his ear, using only his sword.

“ _Ow!_ ” Mordred complained, though there was something playful behind his tone.

“That’s what you get for not paying attention. Now, let’s pick up where we left off last week—”

 

\--~--

 

An hour later – half an hour was spent with Arthur alone, another half hour with Gwaine and a man who had introduced himself as Lancelot – Mordred was sitting on the ground, absolutely exhausted and unable to move another muscle. He had managed to crawl over to the bench where his bag was resting at Merlin’s feet.

“You look positively delighted that Arthur gave you some personal attention.” Merlin seemed in a fairly good mood – he may even seem amused with not only the state that the journalist was in, but also something else, something that Mordred couldn’t quite pinpoint just yet. “This is exactly the reason why I thank him politely every time he tries to teach me.”

“As you can see, I cannot wait for the next class.” Mordred chuckled, though he managed to push himself to sit upright, at least. It was a little easier to have conversation that way. “I’m Mordred, by the way. Mordred Jones.” He held a hand out towards the other, a soft smile around his lips.

“I know who you are, Mordred.” For a moment, there seemed to be an edge to his voice, but that soon disappeared as he continued. “Arthur hasn’t been able to shut up about you. A natural talent, he called you. And then he made me promise to never tell you.” Merlin laughed, a free, melodious one that made Mordred smile as well. It was a noise that made him feel at home for a moment, as if he truly belonged.

“Good thing that I know who you are as well, then, Merlin.” The journalist said. “Emrys, right?”

If Merlin flinched again, it was less noticeable, because this time Mordred was actually paying attention to it. “The one and only.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Merlin Emrys.” Mordred smiled up at the other, an honest to god smile that could light up an entire room. One that was returned by the other, by the man who was seemingly Arthur’s assistant, but who also was so much more.

“The pleasure is all mine.”

For a moment, the two of them simply sat there, smiling at each other, content with the world. However, that didn’t last too long, because new people were bustling into the room, ones that Mordred instantly recognised. Leaving Merlin be for just a moment, he managed to jump up and rush over to the new arrivals.

“Gwen! Elyan! What brings you here?” Mordred couldn’t help but smile a little brighter before he wrapped his arms around her. “Merlin, Arthur, this is—”

“Gwen!” Arthur walked over, gently pushed the journalist aside and pulled her in for a _deep, possessive kiss._

“Oh.” An embarrassed blush spread across Mordred’s cheeks as he realised what a mistake he had made. “So this is _the_ Arthur? The one you’ve been pining over for months before you finally had the guts to ask him out?”

He highly enjoyed the – much redder than his own – blush that was making its way to both Gwen’s and Arthur’s cheeks as he revealed a few secrets that he had been keeping to himself for months – mostly because he didn’t have anyone else to share them with.

“Arthur this is—” Gwen started, thoroughly embarrassed at this point, but she too was interrupted by her boyfriend.

“Mordred. I know, he’s the new student who arrived last week.” Arthur turned his attention back to the young journalist. “You never said that you were friends with Gwen.”

“You never said that you were friends with Gwen either, Arthur. Though, in my defence, there are many people called Arthur. I’ve never bumped into another Mordred before.” He said smugly, before turning to Elyan. “And _you_. How have you been able to keep this a secret?”

“You never asked, mate.” He shrugged, before stepping past the trio and making his way to where Gwaine and Percival were sitting. “Welcome to the family, Mordred. It seems you already know more people than you thought you did!”

“Thank you, Elyan.” Mordred frowned a little, wondering how many surprises were still in store for him. “I’ll leave you two to flirt in peace.” He told Arthur and Gwen, feeling that he was a little out of his dept and definitely out of place. He returned to his bag, where Merlin was still sitting, though his mood seemed to have changed dramatically. “Are you not a fan of Gwen?”

Merlin, who seemed unaware of the expression that had crept up on his face, glanced over at the young journalist. “I love Gwen. I was the one who introduced the two of them, after all.” But there was still something different about the way that he said that, as if he didn’t seem too glad about the fact that the two of them got along as well as they did.

“But—?”

Merlin looked at him with a frown between his brows, as if he didn’t quite understand what was going on. “How do you seem to know me so well?”

“I don’t know, you’re just an open book to me.” Mordred shrugged nonchalantly, wondering whether this man was the same one who had read the diary that he had at home. No, he told himself. No, that was impossible. Nobody could live that long. “I also have amazing social skills.” He said in a tone that clearly showed that it was a joke. “I can read every single social cue impeccably.”

Once again, Merlin laughed, though this time the noise seemed to worm itself into Mordred’s heart and warm up something that he hadn’t felt before. “Why don’t I believe that?”

“Because, _Mer_ lin,” Mordred said in his best Arthur imitation. “You are an absolute clotpole who has no social skills whatsoever.”

The two of them shared a laugh, before Mordred impulsively blurted out in invitation: “Would you like to go and grab a drink with me?”

“We usually go and grab a drink with the entire gang once the last lesson is over.” Merlin said, completely unaware of the actual nature of the question.  “You could always join us, if you’d like.”

Feeling like he was turned down, Mordred simply nodded and didn’t push the matter. “Of course. I’d like that a lot.”

“So would I,” said Merlin, before he turned his attention back to the rest of the room, to Arthur and Gwen, to the others, and for some reason, Mordred’s heart wished that the man would turn his attention back to him.

Maybe tonight. Maybe at the pub, he would be able to convince Merlin to pay more attention to him. Maybe, just maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merdred!  
> A mention of Lance and the introduction of Elyan!  
> What'll possibly happen next?


	6. Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter!  
> This was the most difficult to write since I didn't have a concrete idea. The rest should come at least a little easier.

Usually, I use this diary to complain, to tell my story, but today, I want to do something a little different. Gaius – I’ve told you about Gaius, haven’t I? He’s the man that I live with, who taught me how to heal people and all that. He is also not-so-secretly a magic user, or at least used to be. He’s toned it down, except for when I am in a lot of trouble, which uses more than I would like.

I also see him as a father-like figure, but that’s something that we both know but will never say. We care, of course, but it’s different to actually put our relationship into words. It’s the first time I’ve actually written it down. (Gaius, if you are reading this, I have never called you my father.)

No matter what he is, I have a huge amount of respect for him and even if I sometimes throw away his advice, I always at least consider it. So when I came to him to ask for advice on the Mordred situation, he said something that I cannot help but remember still. I wrote down the conversation as much as I can remember.

 

\--~--

 

I was the one who actually started the conversation, of course, while we were sitting at the table and enjoying the scraps of food that Gaius had managed to get together for the two of us. There was some meat in there, something that was fairly rare for the two of us, especially back then. So I knew that Gaius would definitely be in a good mood – maybe even good enough for the conversation that was about to follow.

“Mordred spent most of the day with Arthur again.” I start, hoping that Gaius would indulge me at least a little.

“You’ve got to stop obsessing with that boy.” He seemed to sigh at me, as if he was disappointed. (He was definitely disappointed, I knew that deep down in my stomach the second he turned his full attention to me.)

“I can’t _help it_ , Gaius! He is going to kill Arthur, according to the prophecy. How can I just sit by and let him manipulate the king?”

I don’t know what is worse, Gaius’ disappointed face – which I get a lot – or Arthur yelling at me. Neither of them are rare, yet when I see the physician’s face fall like that, my stomach makes a tumble and—okay, I know which is worse. Definitely Gaius. Nothing, however, could beat a look with a hint of pity, which I got at that moment in time.

“You truly believe he is your responsibility, don’t you, my boy?” His voice dropped a few tones and softened considerable. That was never a good sign.

“It’s more than that, Gaius.” I said, though I didn’t look at him. “He’s my friend. I care about him. Why would I want him to die because some kid has a destiny?”

Once again, he sighed, because apparently there were too many things wrong with that statement to reply straightaway. He eventually decided on only one of them, I could see it in his eyes. “You were once a kid with a destiny, Merlin.”

That quiet remark had me floored, because he was right. Was that why I didn’t like Mordred? Because he reminded me of myself, all those years ago? Young and naive, ready for the world, ready to prove that not all sorcerers were bad.

For a flash of a moment, I even wondered where all of it went wrong.

Gaius must have noticed that, because instantly he reached out and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Eat now, Merlin. We can continue this conversation at a later time.”

 

\--~--

 

I didn’t give up on the topic. A few days later, I tried again, once more at dinner. Gaius wasn’t in as good a mood as he had been the previous time, so the subject was changed and shifted a lot faster, but there was one thing he said that I just can’t get out of my head.

_It sounds like you’re jealous, Merlin._

Which I am most definitely not. I am glad that Mordred is taking a bit of the heat off me. Arthur doesn’t need me there constantly anymore, he has his new knight to take care of him instead, maybe even in ways that I can’t. I was never the one to listen to one or to train with him. I probably never will be either. But Mordred—he can be like that. He can admire Arthur the way he wants to be admired.

And I’ll be the critical voice behind him, along with Gwen, we’ll be the adults he needs.

I don’t mind being that for him, never getting any recognition for what I do, because that’s not why I do it. He’s my friend and my future and I believe that he can make everything so much better, if only—I can’t allow Mordred to be a threat to him.

I _cannot_.

Who would take over after Arthur died? Gwen? She may have the respect of the knights and the love of the people, but will she be able to hold her own against the other nobles? I know that Leo will be there to fight for her if necessary, as will the other knights, but there’s only so much that one can do. So if that means that I have to be cold to Mordred, to the young boy that I once reluctantly saved, to the young man who forgave me for something that I had done years ago at the advice of the Great Dragon, then so be it.

 

\--~--

 

I am not in love with Arthur Pendragon.

 

\--~--

 

Princess Mithian of Nemeth stopped by today. She claims that Odin has attacked her lands and she could barely escape. She even had to leave her father behind, she told us, and she would love some support as we go find him. I usually wouldn’t mind helping her, since she is an ally of Camelot and a wonderful woman, but…

There’s something not quite right with Hilda.

I don’t know what it is that rubs me the wrong way, but it’s the looks she sends me when she thinks that I can’t see her. The way she is too smooth, too quick, to reassure us that everything is alright, while the look in Mithian’s eyes tells a completely different tale.

And she is _never_ alone, not anymore!

Mithian used to be an independent woman, who refused to be forced by her father and became a force to be reckoned with now she seems to be more under Hilda’s thumb than anything else. This is just… not right. I just don’t have proof and until I have anything that’ll concretely prove that Hilda isn’t who she says she is, I cannot do anything.

Even Gaius agrees with me that there is something off about it all, but of course Arthur refuses to see it. Instead, the stubborn clotpole wants us to go out as fast as we can, to face Odin where he has the advantage, because he knows that we’ll be coming, that it’s just a question of _when_ we turn up. I tried to point all of these things out to him, make it clear that he is being a _bloody idiot_ but does he listen? No!

Of course he doesn’t listen. He never does.

The only thing the king seems to be good for is listening to me, nodding as I point out what he should do and what he shouldn’t, and then continue to completely ignore me. There is nothing as frustrating as watching him smile and nod and while that’s happening, he’s already coming up with a different plan!

So now I’m polishing his armour – I’m using magic, Gaius is out anyway, collecting healing herbs for me to take along – and getting everything ready for a long trip. He’s taking Mordred with him, of course, because who would he be without the puppy running around him for a few days?

Okay, maybe that was unfair, but Mordred genuinely reminds me of a young puppy who needs attention constantly, with his tail wagging in the wind. Maybe a sorcerer should ‘accidentally’ step by and curse the youngest knight to be a dog for a few days. See if Arthur notices a difference.

That idea cheered me up. I would never go through with it, of course, Mordred would know instantly that it was me and any friendship I’d have with him would instantly be destroyed. But the idea of him, running around on all fours, his curly hair bouncing everywhere…

He would totally be a poodle, wouldn’t he? Neatly groomed, in need of loads of cuddles and kisses, but also fierce… Maybe I should take a step away for a moment, use my hands to clean instead of write. After all, Gaius can return any mo—

 

\--~--

 

I should never say that someone is about to arrive, because I am cursed. I mention someone and guess who just so happens to stroll into my rooms? I was just in time to catch the armour and pretend that I was cleaning it by hand.

Either way, we’re leaving in the morning and while I know I should try and sleep, I cannot help myself but go over all the different scenarios that might happen. All of them involve Morgana and Mordred somehow changing sides. None of them end up with all of us coming home. In some, I sacrifice myself, in others, Arthur dies, or the knights, or Mithian, or her father, but—

I need to stay positive.

I cannot allow myself to think like this, yet my mind cannot stop coming up with all these doom scenarios, that’ll tell me that there is absolutely no hope left for us. I just need a break. A week where nothing happens, where I can sleep and let Gaius spoil me – he thinks I don’t know, but he always manages to get meat at the times that I need it the most.

Maybe Arthur will even leave me alone if I have a breakdown that’s big enough to worry even _him._

But what would Mordred do? Would he swoop in and take care of his destiny while I am unable to stop him? It’d be so easy for him to simply—

I don’t even know why he would try to kill Arthur.

I have barely slept more than five hours over the last three nights, I just need to sleep. I’m seeing motives behind people that aren’t there and that is just not very nice to those people involved.

Good night.

I don’t say this as often as I should, huh?

I am still sure that something is going to go terribly wrong, but that’s a worry for tomorrow. Tonight, I just sleep. Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merlin's spreading himself too thin, this isn't going to end well.


	7. Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again!
> 
> Next chapter might take a while once again, especially with exams coming up, but I hope you enjoy this chapter!

The time between the moment that Merlin turned his attention elsewhere and the moment they left for the pub lasted forever to Mordred. He was mostly focussing on his book, trying to do some research as he waited, but he kept glancing up. The raven-haired man’s face had lit up as he talked to Arthur, as if the man was his entire world.

That was fair, Mordred sighed as he once again – for the fifth time – turned his attention back to the book in his hands. This was only the first time that he had talked to Merlin, after all. This was merely a crush, nothing more, it’d be over in a couple of days. He’d go to the pub with them and then return to his life of reading books and writing articles while Merlin did—

At that, Mordred realised that he had no idea what the other did for a living. He glanced up at him, trying to read some sort of sign in his body language that might suggest something, but nothing was really obvious. As a frown settled between his brows, Merlin glanced around and, upon seeing just how grumpy the journalist seemed to be, gestured at him to come over. He looked at him the exact same way that he had looked at Arthur, but Mordred was a hundred percent sure that this was simply residual beaming energy. Still trying to figure out what Merlin could possibly do, he got up and made his way over to the little group.

“Mordred!” Gwen smiled at him with the smile that she always used, which made him feel at home a little more. At least she still was the same. “What have you found out about that book I gave you?”

“Book?” Arthur raised an eyebrow at her, clearly curious what this was about.

“Gwen was kind enough to allow me to check out a book that wasn’t registered just yet, because she thought that it would help me with my investigation into your namesake.” Mordred tried to play it off as _no biggie_ , but he was very much aware how grateful he should be towards her. (He sent her the most charming smile he could to express that.)

“So was it written by Merlin? Was I right?” She beamed at him, which reassured him that she knew very much how thankful he was towards her. “I only was able to check it for a few minutes, but I’m fairly sure that it was written by the so-called sorcerer.”

Merlin’s posture seemed to change drastically as he heard who the diary might have belonged to, even more so at the _so-called_. “Merlin, if he existed, was a very strong sorcerer. The strongest there was, in fact.” The young man huffed softly, before glaring at his friend, who simply winked at him.

Mordred knew that he was missing some context, but simply shrugged and decided to answer Gwen’s question. “I think so. He doesn’t exactly sign his work, but there’s a drawing and it says his name. It seems to check out, he knows things about King Arthur and his knights surrounding him that nobody else seems to be aware of.”

“Like the fact that he was probably a clotpole as well?” There was a smile around Merlin’s lips, especially as he glanced at Arthur.

This, however, made Mordred a little uncomfortable. He had just read a fragment where Merlin-the-sorcerer had called Arthur-the-king the exact same and while the raven-haired man may have picked it up from _him_ , after the journalist used it earlier, it seemed like a little game between the two of them. He glanced at Arthur, trying to make sense of his reaction, but there was none, except exasperation. “That’s weird, I picked up that word from the book. That Merlin used it as well…”

Upon hearing that mutter from the journalist, the raven-haired man glanced over at him, eyes wide, like a deer caught in car lights. “You used it earlier.” He said, though it sounded as if he was trying to talk himself out of something. “That’s where I heard it.”

“Why are you so defensive, Merlin?” Arthur shook his head a little, but it was with fondness. “It’s not as if you can be the same person as the one who wrote that book.”

The laughter that filled the room was nothing if not awkward.

Mordred would have picked that up as some sort of sign if the subject hadn’t been changed instantly by Merlin himself. “Why don’t we go to that pub now? I could do with a drink!”

Multiple voices agreed – not just Arthur and Gwen, but also Lancelot and Elyan, along with some others who didn’t seem to be wearing a King Arthur related name – so upon packing everything they had brought along and changing back into their non-sporty clothes, they all made their way over to the local pub.

 

\--~--

 

Mordred had no idea what he had expected of this expedition to the pub. It certainly wasn’t a small pub called _the Dragon’s Den_ , which seemed barely large enough to fit the entire group. After asking around, not only the people the journalist had figured out were the core gang – Arthur, Merlin, Gwen, Elyan, Leon, Percival and Gwaine – but some other students as well. He recognised Kay and a few others from the group who would be waiting for class right after his own.

All in all, there were about fifteen people and if they all sat down at different boots, they filled most of the pub. (There were maybe one or two tables left in one of the corners.) While the smaller tables were quickly picked out, Arthur, Merlin and the rest seemed to make their way over to the biggest table in the establishment. It was round and was able to find a seat, though it appeared that they had fixed seating on the sofa that surrounded about three quarters of the table.

“Mordred!” The journalist seemed a little lost on where exactly to sit until he was called out to by Gwaine. “Come sit here.” The man patted the empty bit of seating right next to him.

The journalist made his way over the seat that seemed to be reserved for him and as he sat down and looked up, he quite by accident made eye contact with Merlin. He sent the other the smallest of smiles, but then turned his attention to the man sitting right next to him.

“Thanks.” He said quietly, for a moment a hint of his Welsh accent peaking through. He had worked so hard on trying to hide where he originally came from, so it was a rare occurrence for people to hear it. The look in Gwaine’s eyes told him that it was definitely a surprise.

“So we’ve got a Welshman at our table tonight!” He exclaimed, mirth in his eyes as he turned towards the rest.

“Don’t act as if people from different parts of the country are new, Gwaine.” It was Leon who replied to the other, a fond but fairly well hidden eye roll accompanying his words. “Don’t forget that _you_ and Merlin are from Ireland.”

“Only _I’m_ from Ireland, Leon.” Gwaine replied, attempting to sound playful but Mordred had the feeling that it was fairly serious. “Merlin’s from Northern Ireland, which isn’t the same.”

“Oh no, not this again.” Arthur sighed, glancing at Merlin who was already getting ready to yell something about the two being on the same island. “We’re not going into this _again_ , Merlin, so sit down, Gwaine, shut your mouth and go and get our drinks.”

The two people seemed to consider ignoring their friend, but Merlin was the first one to relax decide that it wasn’t worth it. Gwaine, on the other hand, grumbled something under his breath before he shooed Mordred out of the booth – who complied, of course – to collect the drinks, as he was intrusted.

The Irishman was about to leave as he turned to Mordred. “What do you want to drink?”

“Cider. Doesn’t matter which one, just any kind’ll do.” Mordred smiled, a little awkwardly, since he was in the middle of sitting down again.

Gwaine nodded and walked over to the old bartender, who had been in the middle of staring at Mordred as the other walked closer to him. The journalist briefly made eye contact with the man, who immediately broke it in favour of talking to the journalist.

“Who’s that?” Mordred asked, not to anyone in particular, as he nudged with his head in the direction of the bartender.

“Kilgharrah.” Merlin was the one who replied, for some reason. “He’s the owner. He is ancient—” He seemed say it as if he was a joke, but as the journalist glanced back at the bartender, he could see why the other said that. “—but he insists on running it by himself. I don’t know how he does it, if I’m honest.”

It was at that point that Gwaine returned with the drinks and took his original place next to his boyfriend Percival. As the drinks were distributed, the conversation quickly split up in smaller groups. While Percival and Gwaine tried to involve Mordred in the beginning, they soon gave up as they ran out of awkward small talk conversations. (Instead, they simply moved a little closer to each other, as they got more drunk as time went on.)

Merlin was mostly involved in a passionate conversation with Gwen and Arthur – if Mordred listened closely, he could hear the mention of some historical figures, but he was too far to be able to follow the conversation properly. The journalist was simply sitting too far from them to be able to talk properly.

It was Leon who noticed the glances that Mordred was throwing at Merlin first, so he nudged Elyan – who he had been talking to – and got up to ‘go get more drinks’. As the oldest of the gang walked past Mordred, he suggested to him to go and sit next to Merlin, so that he would no longer have that _lost_ look on his face.

The journalist blushed brightly, but did follow his advice and scooted into the booth until he was sitting next to Merlin. The other glanced up – the conversation about the historical figures seemed to have come to an end – and turned his attention to Mordred. “You know a lot about history, right? Not like these two, who I have been trying to educate for _years_ now?”

A little awkwardly, the journalist glanced at Arthur and Gwen, but they were already more focussed on each other than on what Merlin was saying. “I have a base idea of it, yes. Why are you asking?”

“I’ve been looking for someone to discuss history with for quite some time now, I might finally be lucky.” He smiled, before attempting to launch into a discussion about who exactly had started World War One. It was not a subject that Mordred was well versed in, so he simply let the other talk, right until Leon and Elyan arrived with the drinks.

The amused look on their faces when Mordred sent them a ‘ _help me_ ’ look told him that they knew very well that Merlin tended to do this quite a lot and that they were happy that someone else was the victim for once.

Every time the journalist attempted to guide the topic someplace else – either King Arthur, the original one, or something about Merlin himself – the other just stared at him for a fraction of a second, before rolling his eyes and continuing rambling on about the first World War.

It wasn’t until another black-haired person arrived – a woman, this time – that Merlin allowed him to change the subject. “Who’s that?” Mordred asked, as he made eye contact with her. Was there some recognition in her eyes or was that just his imagination?

“Morgana. Arthur’s sister.” Merlin explained quickly. “She’s dating Leon and I wouldn’t put it past the two of them to get engaged soon.”

The two of them watched as Morgana pressed a kiss to Leon’s curls, before going to sit down next to Leon. The entire gang had to scoot closer to each other to make space for her, but the only one who seemed to have a problem with that was Mordred himself. He blushed brightly as Merlin and his legs were pressed against each other – that seemed to have been Leon’s plan, based on the wink that the journalist got from the man.

Merlin, thankfully, seemed unaware of how uncomfortable Mordred had become and turned back to Arthur and Gwen, to attempt to reignite that conversation. Once again feeling a little left out, Mordred gestured to the others that he needed to get out of the ‘trap’ that he had found himself in, before excusing himself for the evening.

Of course, everyone wished him a good night, which made him smile before he walked out of the pub and made his way back home.

 

\--~--

 

**Merlin – 23:58**

Leon said you tried to flirt with me.

I didn’t know.

Am a little drunk, but wanna go on a date?

**Mordred – 00:05**

It’d be my pleasure.

Please tell me that you’re home, that you don’t have to make your way home drunk and on your own.

**Merlin – 00:07**

Still at the pub.

Waiting for Argwen to stop flirting so they can drop me off.

Doesn’t look like they’re gonna stop anytime soon

**Mordred – 00:09**

Well, I’m clearly still awake.

The pub isn’t too far from my place. Want me to come and pick  you up?

You could crash at mine if you’d like.

**Merlin – 00:18**

Yeah okay.

Are you sure about me crashing at yours, though?

Don’t feel like you have to.

**Mordred – 00:19**

I’ll be there in five minutes.

**Mordred – 00:27**

I’m there. Come outside?

**Merlin – 00:28**

Yessir.


	8. Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a while, hasn't it?
> 
> The next chapter is already written, so you'll probably get it next week. My school schedule is a lot calmer this semester, so I might take every Thursday off school to write a chapter. I've missed writing.
> 
> Either way, I hope you enjoy this new chapter!

So my hope that I would get a full night’s sleep was fulfilled, but a nice week off? That was just _too much_ to ask, now was it? A couple of days ago, Arthur got a judgement from the Disir – a message from the Gods of the Old Religion – and of course the idiot King decides to storm into the cave of the Disir without any respect whatsoever and _demand_ that they undo it immediately.

If only he’d realise that when it comes to magic, demanding answers doesn’t work.

Usually, quite the opposite happens. Magic tends to fight back. Controlling it is more like finding the balance between asking it kindly and demanding it to do whatever you want. It took me quite a while to figure this out, but Arthur’s clearly nowhere near just yet.

Rather than listen to me, listen to Gaius about the Disir, he would only trust his own judgement, clouded by the lessons that Uther taught him as a young boy. While he has gotten better, while he has learned that not _all_ magic is bad, his initial reaction to it is still _Take it down_. It hurts me to know this, to think that this is his knee-jerk reaction to something as wonderful as magic.

Sometimes I like to imagine his reaction to me telling him that I have magic. I know it depends on my mood whether he accepts or not, but…

This isn’t relevant.

This is not why I picked up my journal.

As I mentioned before, Arthur received judgement. I had no idea what it meant until I talked to both Gaius and the Dragon, but apparently this isn’t a good sign. His fate has been decided and it depicts Arthur’s death. I need to do everything that I can do to avoid this, especially if this means it comes at the hands of Mordred. Camelot deserves better, Gwen deserves better, _Arthur_ deserves better.

I tried to teach him to be respectful towards magic and magic-users, that that is what saves people from situations like this, but he decided to ignore my counsel and trudge into that cave where the mouthpiece of the triple goddess resided. He trudged in, destroyed signs and demanded that they judged him fairly, according to the rules of mortals.

But as mentioned before, magic doesn’t work like that, and now we must bear the consequences.

Mordred got hurt and I don’t think there is anything that Gaius or I can do about it. Whether the young druid-knight lives or dies depends entirely on the king’s decision to accept magic in Camelot or not. And for guidance on that, he looks to me.

I can guide him down each path and he will follow me, trust me to have made the right decision for him, but I have no idea what to do. I know that accepting magic will lead to the possible undoing of the judgement and I might finally be able to live the life that I have always dreamed of, along with Mordred and Gaius and many others, without needing to hide who I truly am.

However, this might also bring along the end of Mordred. After all, if the fate of Arthur’s death is to be undone, then why is there a need to keep the druid around? He will probably die and while that isn’t a high price to pay for the return of magic, it is still one that I am not too eager to accept. As I have mentioned once or twice before, the boy is quite likeable. He doesn’t deserve an end like this, not while he’s so young, with so much of his life unexplored.

On the other hand, keeping magic at bay will be enough to curse Arthur forever. His death will be imminent, probably by the hand of Mordred, but at least he’ll live for a few more weeks, at least, together. He won’t be just another victim of the fight against magic that Arthur gave in to.

Maybe I’m just reading into this too much.

What I do know is that the Disir have given me judgement over a life and I, not unlike a god, now have to decide whether I spare it or let him die. And if there’s _anything_ that I don’t want to do, it’s just that. The worst part is that Arthur thinks that if he accepts magic, Mordred will magically stand up again, that it’s a choice between magic and Mordred.

I wish it was that simple.

If only it was.

Every time he looks at me, Arthur reminds me of the decision I have yet to make. I know that time is running out, that I need to decide fast, but I do not want Mordred to die. Call me selfish, call me whatever you want, but even though I am terrified of what the druid might do to Arthur, he is still like me. He is the only person in the castle who knows who I am.

And he _accepts me._

Even though I have done nothing but push him away, put some distance between the two of us, Mordred still admires me in ways that I do not deserve. He might not run after me like a puppy, the way he does with Arthur, but every time he has to make a decision, he still glances at me, as if he wants to know whether I approve or not.

And sometimes, when he thinks that I am asleep, he sends me little messages, little whispers, like he used to do when he was young. Most of them are simple, just brief ‘you did well today’s or ‘thank you for accepting me’s. Small whispers in the middle of the night that warm my heart in ways that they shouldn’t.

If only he knew what I knew about him. If only he had any idea of his future, of the villain he might become. Why can’t the world ever be simple? Why can’t the choices be clear and concise? Black and white, good or bad, no grey moral dilemmas. Just the answers presented in front of us.

I probably have about a day left before Arthur’s going to ask me what he should do.

A day to make up my mind.

 

\--~--

 

Gaius told me that if I don’t do anything about Mordred’s situation, he won’t last that much longer. I visited him today and he just looks so pale. So small. He looks like the young boy that he truly is. I’ve never really asked him about his age, but I know that, when we first met, he was only about twelve and that was—

Seven years ago?

Something like that. That means that he’s only nineteen. That’s too young. He deserves so much better than I can give him. Even if he does survive this and manages to live a little longer, there is still a chance that he’ll end up killing Arthur and none of the knights will allow him to live after that. Unless he is controlled by magic – which is something that might happen, I assume? I can’t see this puppy snapping so abruptly that he will turn on the King.

I can’t take down a nineteen year old. I can’t decide about a nineteen year old’s fate.

If there was just about anything else that I had to choose between, I would save Mordred without a moment’s hesitation, but it’s _magic_. Bringing magic into Camelot has been my goal since I arrived in the castle, but do I have to abandon this decision? Do I have to postpone this a little more? Will I have enough time?

We’re leaving for the cave tonight and we’re probably going to talk to the Disir again tomorrow. I need to make a decision by tonight. Well, at least I’ll be able to think about it as we ride out there, right?

 

\--~--

 

Arthur’s asleep.

He asked the Big Question tonight and I think I have made the most difficult decision of my life. You’re probably not going to believe me, yet it was what happened: I chose to save Mordred. I told Arthur that – and I quote – magic will never have a place in Camelot.

It hurt to say and I’m sure that Arthur knew that there was something up. To him, it sounds as if I have just condemned Mordred to death. To him, it makes me seem like more of an asshole that I was before. I don’t care. I just don’t want Mordred to die, not today.

I want him to die because of a decision he made himself, not one that others made.

So I hope that when we get back to Camelot, there will be a curly haired druid boy there to greet us. I know it’ll surprise Arthur, for sure. He’ll be going back with the assumed knowledge that Mordred will be dead.

One thing that this decision will confirm for me is whether Mordred will actually be involved with Arthur’s fate or not. If he lives, then I’ve been right all along, then I might have condemned both of them, but…

I don’t know.

The light’s going out, the campfire is dying, so I’m going to put down my journal and try to sleep at least a little bit. I know my magic will keep watch for me as I rest. We’ll learn what the consequences of my choices are tomorrow. We’ll live with it tomorrow.

I just hope that I can sleep tonight.

 

\--~--

 

We saw the Disir. Arthur told them that magic would never be welcomed in Camelot and hearing him say that was something that hurt me more than I thought it would. I know that I put that idea in his head, yet… actually _hearing_ him say it was still something completely different.

We rode back in silence, of course, since he was already mourning Mordred and I was in my head about something else completely. He didn’t even make any remarks about the fact that I was so quiet, which was not only new, but also confirmed that Arthur wasn’t entirely present.

You should have seen both of their smiles when we got back to Camelot. Arthur was genuinely surprised, while Mordred was so full of life, so _happy_ to still be alive that their smiles almost outshone each other. I hope that it was worth it. I hope with all my heart that this’ll turn out well.

I fear it might not.

Once we were there, the two of them went off to the training ground straight away, since Mordred wanted to prove how much he had recovered already and Arthur simply wanted to be around the knight who had magically recovered from his injuries. I followed them, of course, I always do, and watched as they sparred.

For a moment, I thought that either of them might get hurt, but nothing happened. It was quite anticlimactic, if I think about it.

Later that night, when I was in bed, I heard Mordred’s voice in Gaius’ room, talking to the physician. They seemed to talk for a little while, before the two of them bid each other goodnight and Gaius walked into my room, a small note in his hands.

Apparently Mordred felt the need to write me a thank you note. I’ll put it in here.

 

\--~--

 

Merlin,

For a moment, I thought I was dead. But you got me back to Camelot, brought me to Gaius and watched over me while I was recovering. I know what struck me wasn’t a normal wound. I know that it was magical. And I was sure that you would let me die.

But you didn’t.

And I don’t know whether I am surprised at this or whether that I’ve always known that you would not allow me to die. Either way, I really want to thank you, whatever you do. I might not get the chance to say it again, to say it in person – you might not want anyone to know, but I am grateful that you chose to put enough effort in to save my life.

I will keep this in mind.

If you ever need something in return, something that I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask, I will do absolutely anything within my powers to help you in whatever way I can.

Thank you, with all my heart.

Mordred.

P.S. If you’d like to stop by at some point… My door’s always open for you, no matter what you need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never believed that Merlin thought the choice was that simple. I never believed that Merlin could condemn Mordred to death that easily.
> 
> And now, in my AU, he never did.


	9. Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in two weeks! Let's hope that I can keep this up at least a little, huh?
> 
> I hope that you enjoy this next chapter! We're over halfway and we're slowly edging towards the end of this story.

As Mordred opened his eyes, it took him a while to realise just exactly where he was. It wasn’t his bedroom, it wasn’t his own bed, but his surroundings were familiar enough to avoid a minor freak out. As he pushed himself up and realised that he had fallen asleep on the sofa, the telly still on, the memories of the previous evenings came rushing back to him.

The awkward evening in the pub, Merlin eventually asking him out via text and then—

Wait, Merlin was probably somewhere in his house at that exact moment. Merlin was sleeping in _his_ bed, probably worrying about whether or not he should come down, whether Mordred would be—oh _god_.

The other was probably hung over or something. Mordred rushed to his bathroom – up the stairs, down the hallway, second door to the right – and grabbed some painkillers before making his way to his bedroom, where he gently pushed the door open and peeked inside. Merlin was curled up on the bed, covered completely by the blanket, his black curls only just visible at the end of it. He couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corners of his lips and as he walked over and placed the painkillers on the bedside table, besides the glass of water that he had provided Merlin with the evening before, he sighed softly.

Glancing at the curtains, Mordred realised that he had no idea what Merlin’s job was, so he didn’t know whether he should wake him up or not. He eventually glanced back to the other, bit hit bottom lip and then turned his back towards him, leaving the room once again so that Merlin could wake up in peace.

By the time that Merlin made it downstairs, Mordred had gotten dressed and was currently enjoying a cup of coffee as he was reading Merlin the warlock’s diary. He glanced up as he heard footsteps almost hesitantly making their way to the kitchen, smiling as he watched the other appear in his doorway.

“Good mor—”

Before Mordred could even finish his sentence, Merlin’s eyes had widened and he had rushed over towards the other, wrapping his hands around the journalist’s throat. The grip was tighter than the latter had suspected – and he was quite taken by surprise – so rather than fight it, struggle against it, he was too shocked to do anything but let it happen.

“You _died_.” Merlin hissed, gritting between his teeth. “You died and killed Arthur and now I’m _all alone_ because of _you_.”

Some confused splutters escaped him, especially at those words, as his fighting spirit returned from where it had been hiding all his life. Without even realising it, his own hands had moved between his throat and Merlin’s hands, attempting to loosen it. “Merlin.” He whispered, though it wasn’t more than a croak.

“ _No!_ This entire—this is all because of _you,_ Mordred! And—” He groaned, clearly frustrated, before he continued. “And this is probably just me hallucinating in a house somewhere, attempting to kill some other _junkie_ , but I _swear_ , if you are actually Mordred, if this really _is_ you, then I will _end you_ before you can even begin.”

While he had been able to gasp for air a little, Merlin’s grip on him had tightened once again, completely blocking off his airflow at this point. Mordred was starting to feel a little lightheaded and no matter how determined he was to fight this man, he knew that he probably wouldn’t be able to win this. So he reached for his phone, attempted to pull it closer and blindly text Arthur.

**Arthur – 9:03 a.m.**

Mer’s tryin tochokeme help.

He could only hope that his fencing teacher one: was awake and two: would see his text. He couldn’t exactly ask the other to put the entire endeavour on hold so that he could text for help. Besides, it wasn’t as if he knew why Merlin was doing this. He could just have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed, or he could have decided that he didn’t want to go on a date with Mordred after all… It wasn’t as if the journalist had actually any clues at all as to what might be happening.

The only thing he knew that there were black spots appearing in his vision and his knees were trembling and a song was playing. Why, oh _why_ was there a song playing?

It wasn’t until it got well into the first refrain that he realised it was his phone. He was being called. Merlin, taken aback by the sudden noise, let go of Mordred just enough so that the journalist could push him back and take a _deep_ breath of air. He picked up as soon as his vision had stopped swimming, hearing Arthur’s worried voice on the other side.

“Mordred? What’s happening? Is Merlin still there?” Even though he was addressed, Mordred couldn’t do much more than clear his throat, rubbing it a little where he could feel the bruises of Merlin’s grip start to bloom.

So rather than talking, he put the call on speaker, so that Merlin, who had recovered from the surprise of the song and was once again coming for the journalist, could hear Arthur as well.

“Mordred! Say something, or I’m calling the police.”

As his hands moved towards the journalist’s throat again, he froze as he heard the fencing teacher’s voice. “Arthur…” It wasn’t more than a whisper, but he grew louder as Merlin continued on. “Arthur, you’re _alive_. You’ve come back!”

“Yes, I’ve come back, Merlin. Now, Mordred is a good man, he is trying to help us this time, so how about you do not choke him?” To the journalist, this sounded as if it had happened many a-times, that Merlin started choking people out of nowhere. “I’m on my way over, so you can actually see me. Until then, why don’t you make Mordred some tea and apologise?”

Merlin, suddenly acutely aware once again that he was sharing a room with the man he clearly believed to have killed Arthur, narrowed his eyes at Mordred, who simply swallowed tightly and took a few steps back. “No—” His voice, even more croaky than before, wasn’t enough, so he held up his hands, the universal sign of surrender.

“Hurry, please.” For a moment, Merlin sounded so absolutely lost, that Mordred almost felt sorry for him.

“I’ll be there as fast as I can.” Arthur promised him, before addressing Mordred once again. “Hold on for ten more minutes and I’ll explain everything, okay? If you do not feel safe, just lock yourself up in the bathroom or something. I’ll be there to get you out in no time.”

Mordred nodded, listened to Arthur fumble with his phone for a few seconds before hanging up and turning to Merlin. The two of them had a little stare-off, before the journalist stepped past him and made his way to the bathroom, not to lock himself up, but to get some more painkillers.

 

\--~--

 

By the time that Arthur arrived – the doorbell announced the man’s arrival – Mordred was very much still in the bathroom, claiming to himself that he was waiting for the pain killers to kick in and his throat to ease up. However, as he heard the bell ring, he dashed down the hallway, hoping to get to the door before Merlin did. (He had no idea what was going on with his friend, with the man he thought was his friend, but apparently, he hated him with a passion? Or did he see someone else when he saw Mordred?)

He could already hear the other walk over when he opened the door, smiling a little at Arthur. The fencing teacher’s eyes immediately darted from his throat – “Nice bruises. We’ll take care of those later.” – to Merlin, who darted around the corner and skidded to a halt as he spotted the blonde man.

Mordred could see how the teacher braced himself before closing the door behind him and turning towards the raven haired man. “Hello, Merlin.”

There was no answer from the other, Merlin simply glanced from Mordred to Arthur to Mordred again, almost as if he suspected that there was something wrong, as if the journalist had something to do with the fact that Arthur had turned up again. The three of them stood there in silence for a while, before there was this wave of warmth that rolled off of Merlin as he rushed to Arthur and threw himself into the man’s arms.

The wave of whatever it was seemed to ease up his throat, at least enough for him to be able to speak without being in too much pain. “What—” He managed, before Arthur’s eyes found his and he ever so slightly shook his head.

_Give me a few more minutes with him._

That was most definitely Merlin’s voice inside his head, that much was clear to the journalist. What he didn’t know, however, was where it had come from? So he stood there with wide eyes as this _impulse_ took over and he tried to reply.

_ Take all the time you need. I’m making tea. _

Rather than watch the two of them for even a second longer – his heart was aching more than he thought it would, even though he knew that they were each other’s best friend and that he was just a stranger – he turned around and made his way to the kitchen, where he put the kettle on.

_You didn’t tell me you had magic this turn around._

When Mordred glanced over, Merlin had stepped away from Arthur and was staring at him. He swallowed tightly – which didn’t hurt as much as it did a few minutes ago – and turned his back towards the raven haired man.

_Mordred, don’t ignore me. I’m not going to harm you again._

He could feel his shoulders tense up as there was something else besides Merlin’s voice that was moving along his skin. He knew it wasn’t a hand, it couldn’t be, since the only two people in the room were standing quite far away from him, but it almost felt like one that was trying to get him to turn around. However, the journalist refused to move, refused to do anything but stand there, all tense.

_I know you can hear me._

_ Get out of my head, Merlin. _

The moment he thought that message, the kettle abruptly came to a boil, even though it had been far from that temperature. The steam practically exploded out of it, which got everyone’s attention in the room.

“Merlin, what’s happening?” Arthur had seen the unspoken conversation between the two men, which had culminated in the kettle boiling before its time, but it seemed that he couldn’t hear anything that was going on. “I don’t understand—”

“Arthur, for once in your life, just _shut up_.” Merlin’s voice was a little harsher than Mordred had ever heard it before and it was enough to pull him out of his tense stance and turn back to the two of them. Merlin’s eyes were glowing with a golden light and while the journalist had no idea what that meant, there was a gut feeling that told him it meant that he was doing magic.

 _Magic,_ a force that he hadn’t believed existed since he had been a young boy, sitting on the toilet, trying to stop the door from closing. A force that he had stopped believing in when his letter for Hogwarts hadn’t arrived. A force that had moved out of his life when he turned fifteen and his friends had told him that his card tricks were _definitely_ not the same thing.

He had absolutely no idea what Merlin was doing, but that warm sensation that had waved over him before, once again filled him. As his body froze and he seemed to be unable to move, many things around him seemed to suddenly gain that ability. Many pieces of furniture – his sofa, one of the chairs around his table, the small table close to the door to the living room on which he put random trinkets – were now floating around him.

Mordred’s eyes widened as he couldn’t help but stare at everything that was happening around him. What the _hell_ was happening? He turned his gaze from the madness around him back to Merlin, whose eyes were still glowing golden. It almost seemed like there was a wind flowing around him and slowly but surely, the furniture floated back to their respective places.

“Mordred, take a deep breath for me, will you?” Merlin’s eyes had stopped glowing, had returned to that bright electric blue that seemed to pierce through Mordred utterly and completely. “You’re safe, nobody is going to harm you.”

Taking a breath he hadn’t even realised that he’d been holding, he made eye contact with the other, more confused than he’d been before. “What—?”

“Has anyone ever told you, Mordred, that you have magic?”


End file.
